


Something Bitter

by coconutcluster



Series: Hogwarts AU [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Broken Bones, Established logicality, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Loceit, Platonic Roceit, Quidditch, pre-romantic prinxiety - Freeform, well less platonic and more like tagteam or allies!loceit but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 13:49:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: Also known as "that time Roman got a Gryffindor kid suspended for the rest of the Quidditch season because he done got rekt."(also-also known as one time of many in which Virgil and Roman are both constantly in Gay Panic mode)





	Something Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fic written for my Hogwarts au over on tumblr (@coconut-cluster, i just posted some sweet sweet remile content for it too so check that out in the #hogwarts au tag winkwonk) - just to be clear, Roman is a Ravenclaw beater, Virgil is a Gryffindor seeker, Patton is a Hufflepuff keeper, Damien is a Slytherin beater, and Logan is a frickin nerd. 
> 
> Also, I know Quidditch was put on hold in fourth year because of the tournament, but consider this: it wasn't. enjoy!!

Virgil Tempest has one philosophy. 

It’s relatively simple - he’s held onto it since late childhood, so it’s straightforward enough for a kid to understand - and it’s a principle that guides his life, hopes, dreams and goals and actions and whatever. It’s pretty foolproof, if you ask him.

If he’s having a good time, something’s bound to go wrong. 

(Patton’s told him a bunch that he needs to have a bit more faith in good things - of course, as soon as the Hufflepuff speaks out about it, Logan joins in with a precursory straightening of his glasses to inform Virgil that his law is “pessimistic” and “a cyclical way of thinking” and some other phrases that pan out to “that’s bad for you,” as most of Logan’s monologues do. Virgil usually just scowls and slumps in his seat until they’re finished lecturing him.)

He has, however, forgotten that law for the moment, which is probably not good for the whole “guides his life” thing, but he couldn’t care less, because he’s fifty feet in the air and having the time of his life. 

Truth be told, he expected to hate Quidditch from the moment he heard Roman rambling on about it a few days into his first year at Hogwarts. Virgil had never been the sporty type; in fact, one of his earliest childhood memories was getting smacked in the face with a basketball and promptly crying for a full hour because he was positive he’d broken his nose beyond repair. (It was a rubber ball with basketball-esque lines drawn on, and his nose was perfectly fine, but five-year-old Virgil was scarred for years.) He shrugged off all pleas Patton and Roman sprung on him in second year to even try out, opting instead to spend the entire season in the stands with Logan and some fourth-year Ravenclaw who gave them soft (albeit remarkably chipper) life advice in between scribbling game reports in a notebook. 

Then, in a moment of outright stupidity and a pointless need to prove himself to a taunting Roman in third year, Virgil had stalked onto the Quidditch pitch in the middle of the night and mounted his broom as Roman did the same, tossing a snitch into the air. Roman had offered him a gallant beam (and Virgil’s heart did… something) but Virgil just scowled and made a beeline for the buzzing golden ball.

Needless to say, they got caught. But instead of getting expelled, as Virgil had convinced himself would happen by the time Madam Hooch had dragged them back to her office, she sat them down and demanded Virgil be Gryffindor’s new seeker. 

“_What?_” he’d said stupidly, after a minute of slack-jawed silence. Roman made an incomprehensible but undeniably overjoyed noise at his side.

Madam Hooch just waited and let the offer - if you could call it that - sink in, then beamed when Virgil started stuttering a protest. “_I take it you boys would like to discuss tonight with Professor McGonagall, then?_”

The noise Roman made then was far less overjoyed. 

“_Listen, Mr. Tempest,_” Madam Hooch started, leaning forward on her desk with a sigh, “_our seeker graduated last year. I’ve been looking for a good replacement, but no one at tryouts last week seemed fit for the job - but you! You were amazing out there - though you were breaking the rules, maybe don’t do that again,_” she’d added sternly, giving them both a narrowed look. But then her gaze softened as she turned back to Virgil; she gave his panicked expression a small smile that had just a hint of desperation, and Virgil had to admit, it felt nice to be needed. “_You’d be a valuable addition to the team._”

In the end, Virgil just nodded stiffly. Madam Hooch’s face broke out into a grin and Roman cheered, wrapping Virgil in a hug that made his face go warm, but the lights in Madam Hooch’s office were thankfully dim, so his blush went unnoticed. 

And so Virgil Tempest became a Seeker. 

It wasn’t a huge change or anything, just before- and after-school practices, but for the first time since he’d come to Hogwarts, he had… friends? 

Well, he’d always had Roman and Logan and Patton, but the Gryffindor team was nice to him, too, then - they actually liked him, which he definitely hadn’t expected. The captain, Jerome, who’d somehow elbowed his way to leadership despite not being a seventh year as most captains were, made explicit efforts to include him in conversations outside of practices, invited him to hang out in the common room with the rest of his friends; a fourth year named Lydia brought the team pumpkin pasties after Virgil’s first game and pulled him aside as the rest of their peers dispersed, giving him an extra pasty and a bright smile as she said, “You did great out there!” He’s still a bit of a hermit, but he has people to go to, people in his own house he can feel comfortable with. It’s… nice. 

(Not everyone on the team is that amicable, of course, but it’s one or two scowls against four or five friendly faces, so he tries not to pay them any mind.)

And he likes Quidditch! He’s _good _at it - or so he’d come to believe, if just because Roman and Patton insist so often - and God, it feels fantastic. The wind on his face and in his hair, the way the crowd’s cheers become a blur as he speeds around the pitch, the thrill of his fingers curling around the snitch and feeling its wings stop their furious flutter in his palm. He loves every second. 

Now is no exception, in the middle of a match against Ravenclaw - he zooms around Jerome, who’s veering left and right to reach for the quaffle that’s tucked under the arm of Gemma Clarke, Ravenclaw’s captain and Jerome’s kind-of-girlfriend (everyone knows they’re dating, but no one mentions it for the sake of privacy, though their heart eyes in the main hall do little to conceal anything), and Virgil manages to get above the turmoil of mid-field at last, knuckles white around his broom handle. He hovers for a moment, eyes scanning the pitch. Just after he spots the golden blur he’s looking for, he catches Roman’s eyes from where the beater is winding down from striking a bludger; Roman gives a bright smile, and Virgil can’t help but be reminded of that night last year on the Quidditch pitch, just before the snitch had taken flight and them right after it. His face goes warm all over again. 

Shaking his head to clear it, he offers a quick smile back and sets off after the snitch, weaving past the other players to follow the small glimpses he gets of the tiny winged thing. He sees Ravenclaw’s seeker - some frowny sixth year who isn’t really that good, but then again, he doesn’t seem very interested in the sport anyway - trail half-heartedly after him in the corner of his eye, but the rest of his focus is trained on the snitch itself. He’s found tracking the ball is far easier for him than most, ever since he’d snatched it two minutes into a game against Patton and Roman and they’d both stared at him, dumbfounded, for a good while. 

He’s only a few feet behind it now, almost close enough to brush it with his fingertips. The shouting around him - which seems to have picked up suddenly, maybe the crowd’s seen him hone in on the snitch - turns to white noise, nearly static, and he surges forward, faster than the snitch. He reaches out and feels its beating wings against his fingers. 

And he grabs it. 

It curls inward in his hand, pulling its wings in with a sharp snap - he gives a delighted cheer as he holds it tighter and pulls it inward to his chest, then brandishes it above his head for the spectators to see. He waits for the voice over the pitch’s speakers to announce the game is over; when it doesn’t happen immediately as usual, he glances back. 

Half the crowd is on their feet with excitement, but others have a hand over their mouth or stare slack-jawed at the field, including, when Virgil’s confused gaze finds them, Logan, Patton, and even Damien. Virgil follows their eyes to find most of the other players descending - they noticed the snitch’s capture, at least - and flocking to a figure lying in the center of the field; it’s not until he sees Gemma shoving her way past a cluster of Gryffindor players that he realizes the figure is Roman. 

He’s on the ground in seconds, the snitch tossed over his shoulder as a second thought as he sprints to where everyone’s flocked around the Ravenclaw beater. He ducks under Madam Hooch’s arms despite her insistence to “Stay back, we’ll sort it out!” and skids to a halt at Roman’s side, nearly knocking Gemma over, though she doesn’t seem to notice as she speaks to Roman in a low tone. 

“-broken bones?” Virgil hears her finish as he kneels down beside the pair. Roman rolls his eyes.

“I’m fine, Gem,” he insists, giving her a small smile when she just purses her lips. “I just fell off! Hooch caught me before I could hurt anything, anyway - don’t worry yourself into a fever, please.” He’s resting on one elbow, his other hand braced against the ground behind him, his face at ease (if a tad annoyed); he looks a bit like he’s posing for a painting. 

Gemma eyes him, curling her fingers into her palms where they hover over his torso, then crosses her arms. “That was an awfully dramatic fall.”

Roman blinks at her. “Have you _met _me?” 

She takes a deep breath, though her mouth hints at a smile - Virgil can’t tell if it’s relief or genuine amusement. “So nothing’s hurt?”

“Only my pride.”

“Thank Merlin,” Gemma breathes. “I was not prepared to lose my best beater.”

“Hey!” a stocky Ravenclaw boy squawks from somewhere behind Madam Hooch; Gemma ignores him. 

“I’m good, Gem; go mourn our tragic loss with the rest of the team, I’m too ashamed to face them just yet,” Roman says, averting his gaze with a dramatic sigh. 

Gemma rolls her eyes with a shake of her head, and Virgil hears her mutter “Drama queen,” as she walks to Hooch and nods. The crowd around them quickly dissipates - cheers rise as the Gryffindor players cluster together further down the field, finally celebrating their victory, and the Ravenclaws join Gemma with their arms crossed and mouths in tight lines (_sore losers_, Virgil thinks to himself, forcing down a laugh). 

He turns his attention back to Roman, who’s watching their peers in silence. 

“You fell,” Virgil repeats, a little disbelieving; Roman is (usually) more graceful on a broom than even Patton, and that’s saying something - he’s never fallen off, at least not during a game, as far as Virgil knows.

Roman hums, mainly to himself, and glances at Virgil, his face unreadable. “You know,” he says carefully, “I think- I think I lied to Gemma.”

Virgil blinks. “What?”

“I think I’m hurt.”

“_What_?” 

Roman gives a shuddering sigh, shifting ever-so-slightly, brows furrowed as if the action is taxing. “I think,” he starts again, “I think you…” 

Virgil stares at him with wide eyes - why would he lie to Gemma and Madam Hooch? Virgil doesn’t know anything about first aid- oh, God, could Roman die from this? Is Virgil going to have death on his conscience because of a Quidditch game? His philosophy comes flooding back to him; there’s a reason he doesn’t let good things get his hopes up, because something bad _always_ happens- 

“You…” Roman mumbles, reaching a hand blindly towards Virgil’s as he gives a pitiful, agonized exhale, “…might need to- to give me a… feel-better kiss." 

Virgil’s face falls to its natural deadpan state.

"Roman Kearney Walsh,” he says through grit teeth, “you did not-” That stupid, charming laugh fills his ears as Roman’s eyes crinkle up at the corners and he snickers at Virgil’s narrowed gaze. “You’re insufferable, you know that? Jerk.”

“Yeah, yeah- but you love me, right?”

“Not in the slightest.” He pulls his hand from Roman’s loosened grip and crosses his arms over his chest, staring with one unimpressed eyebrow raised at the beater still draped across the damp grass of the Quidditch field. “Are you gonna stop laughing at your own joke and get up now?”

Roman’s laughter diminishes slowly, annoyingly slowly. “…yeah,” he says even slower. 

Bracing himself on the ground, Virgil hauls himself up to stand, crossing his arms again once he’s up. The other Gryffindors have already filed to a spot closer to the field’s edge, jumping for joy at their victory - though one of them (Alexander, one of the beaters that Virgil tries to avoid as much as possible; his quiet demeanor has an uncomfortable edge to it, makes the hairs on Virgil’s arms stand up) stands still on the outskirts of the group, his face pinched with something Virgil can only describe as a grotesque parody of a smirk - and he notices a few of them actually beckoning him over. He gives a small smile and holds a finger up to say just a minute. “I have a win to celebrate, Princey, don’t take all day.”

“You can just go with your house, Virge,” Roman says, and his voice is suddenly tight as he shifts in the grass. Virgil frowns. 

“I know what I can and can’t do,” he shoots back; Roman lets a hiss escape between his teeth, though Virgil can’t really tell if it’s a response or not. He shifts his weight and adds, quietly, “Maybe I just wanna wait for you first.”

Roman doesn’t answer; he’s about to, Virgil thinks, but as he opens his mouth and looks up to meet the Gryffindor’s gaze, he sits up barely an inch, and his face pinches with a grimace, worsening as he slips back again in one swift, yet painfully jarring movement. 

“Roman?” Virgil hisses, kneeling back down at the Ravenclaw’s side in an instant. “Wait, were you- did you actually get hurt?” He ducks to meet Roman’s eyes, which have gone a little glassy. “Like, _actually_?”

Roman’s hand flutters to his side, though it hovers rather than landing fully. “Just a bruise, I’m sure,” he says, and promptly passes out.

–

The sun is fully covered by storm clouds, but it’s still too bright when Roman opens his eyes. 

He manages to pry his eyes to slits after a moment of grimacing and glances around; he sees a few iron-frame beds and carts of bottles and a stray wand, and he realizes, with a bit of sluggish thought, that he’s in the infirmary. His head aches as he squints in the dim light, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in his ribs when he goes to sit up. 

“Roman!” a voice gasps as he gives a pained noise in the back of his throat. 

It’s a nice voice, he thinks wearily as his eyes fall shut and he sinks back onto the thin mattress he’s laying on; it’s a voice he wouldn’t mind listening to as it read a book to him (or a letter- or a shampoo bottle, for that matter), low and a bit gravelly. It makes him think of forests and campfires and treacle tarts. He hums a response, hoping the voice will speak again, not only to distract himself from the lapping pain in his midsection. 

“Are you okay?” the voice says hesitantly. Roman smiles to himself - he really does like that sound - and then his eyes fly open.

Virgil blinks at him from the bedside, tugging at his red-and-gold tie with both hands as he watches Roman stutter a response, though he narrows his eyes when the Ravenclaw’s face goes bright red.

“Roman?” he says again, leaning forward as if to check that Roman’s gaze isn’t frozen. “You good?” 

“Yes!” Roman says too quickly, and another shock of pain (albeit dulled, thank Merlin for magic healing) goes through his ribs. He doesn’t need to panic; it’s not as if Virgil can read his mind- unless he can? Is that a skill wizards can have? He forces down every single thought about Virgil’s voice, however warm and pleasant it is, immediately, just in case. He gives the Gryffindor as brilliant a smile as he can muster. “Yes, I’m wonderful! Why do you ask?”

Virgil blinks again. “You broke three ribs.” 

“…Ah.” _Yes, that would explain the aching, wouldn’t it?_ His smile shrinks to pursed lips as he nods to himself. “Well then.” 

“That’s a little bit of an understated reaction, but okay. Gemma came by earlier,” Virgil continues, clearly holding back a laugh as Roman’s eyes go wide. “Yeah, she’s gonna kill you, Princey. You kinda deserve it.”

“What?” Roman squawks indignantly, putting a hand to his chest with open-mouthed offense. “Why? Might I remind you, I’m the one who got _injured_-”

“Yeah, but you didn’t say that! You told her you were fine!” Virgil gestures wildly to Roman and his infirmary bed. “You were clearly _not _fine!”

Roman doesn’t have a response for that, so he just pushes his lower lip out and scowls at Virgil, who scowls right back. 

“Oh, Mr. Walsh, you’re awake!” 

Roman and Virgil turn to the voice - Madam Pomfrey bustles into the infirmary, straightening her cap as she heads toward their spot. She grabs her wand from one of the carts as she passes it and mutters to herself, seemingly lost in her thoughts as she lists something off; when she finally arrives at Roman’s bedside, she does a double take, then tilts her head slightly.

“How are you feeling, Roman?” she asks, glancing at Virgil for only a second. 

“Oh, uh- better! My ribs still kinda hurt, but it’s definitely… better.”

Madam Pomfrey hums in response. “You did quite a number to yourself - you fell, you said?” 

Roman stares at her, only at her, and purses his lips. He searches, racks his brain, for a better response, a subtle way to ask to speak to her alone, but he’s still sluggish in the mind and comes up with nothing. “I got hit,” he forces out at last, dutifully ignoring Virgil’s wide eyes. 

“Oh, yes, I suspected. You’ll have some nasty bruising, and I had to regrow some bones, so that will be a bit sore for a while, but you’ll be fine after some rest. Speaking of which,” she turns her attention back away from Roman, eyebrows furrowed a little. 

“Virgil, dear, I did ask you to leave Roman to rest a while ago, yes?” she says gently, much nicer than she usually is when telling kids to get out. 

Virgil glances between her and Roman, mouth set in a tight frown as he grapples with whether or not to obey the order. Roman has the urge to reach out and take his hand. 

“Can I just stay for a little bit longer?” Virgil whispers finally, gray eyes round with a quiet plea. 

Madam Pomfrey’s expression somehow softens even more. She glances at the door, then back to the pair before her, and gives a resigned sigh as she offers them a small smile. “I suppose. But not too long, now.”

Virgil returns the smile and nods, taking a deep breath as Pomfrey busies herself with organizing a cart across the room; Roman starts to suspect the Gryffindor is far from a stranger to the infirmary.

His suspicion contemplation is cut short as Virgil turns his gaze back to the Ravenclaw, fire in his eyes. 

“You got _hit_?” he hisses, low enough that Pomfrey can’t hear. Roman shrinks back into the bed. 

“Yeah-”

“And you’re _just now _saying that?!”

“Well, in my defense, I’ve been unconscious since it happened!”

Virgil blows a lock of hair out of his face with an angry huff, crossing his arms over his chest; he’s genuinely upset - obviously - and Roman only feels worse when he can’t help but admire how cute the action is. 

“Beaters get hit all the time,” he says, offering Virgil a _what can you do? _shrug to try and ease the indignation. He pushes down the urge to take Virgil’s hand once more. “It’s just a fact of the sport, Virge, it’s not a big deal. And you heard Pomfrey - I’ll be perfectly perfect again, as soon as I’ve rested!” He leans forward as much as he can without his ribs protesting to meet Virgil’s eyes and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Virgil watches him, eyes narrowed slightly. “I guess. But why didn’t you tell Gemma?”

“Because Gemma actually likes me.” Virgil squints, and Roman adds, quietly, “I didn’t want her to be disappointed.”

“Lots of people like you.” Roman snorts - Virgil looks almost offended. “What? They do!” He frowns, a little crease forming between his eyebrows as he furrows them. “Why would you think people don’t like you?”

Roman has a list - a long one - ready to respond with, though there’s a pain in his chest at the thought of saying it out loud; luckily, he doesn’t have to.

The doors to the infirmary slam open with a jarring _crack - _Virgil and Roman both jump, though Madam Pomfrey just looks inconvenienced as she glances up from the bottles she’s sorting on her cart. She seems less annoyed when she sees who’s at the door. 

Damien storms into the room, Logan and Patton in tow as the infirmary doors fall shut behind them. Patton’s expression is an odd mix of frantic and angry, but Logan just looks amused; Damien, however, looks ready to murder someone, and he just might, considering he’s dragging another (extremely disgruntled) student in by his collar. Virgil straightens up, and Roman realizes the kid has a Gryffindor tie, knotted lazily halfway down his shirt.

“Mr. Beauregard, unhand him at once-” Madam Pomfrey starts, hands on her hips, but Damien shoves the boy out of his grip before she can continue. He stumbles a few steps before shooting the Slytherin a scathing glare. 

“Tell her,” Damien hisses. 

The boy glances around, eyes catching Roman and Virgil’s across the room; his mouth flickers into a smirk for a split second before he forces it back to a frown. Roman finally matches the face to a memory, and he’s sitting up before he can think about it.

“Roman,” Virgil warns, though he looks ready to get up, too. “You have to lay down.”

Alexander - Roman is pretty sure that’s his name, Alexander Kirke, or Kirkland, something like that - actually does smile then. Roman kind of wants to punch him.

“Tell her,” Damien repeats, shoving Alexander again; Madam Pomfrey steps between them, but Damien manages to keep his fiery gaze locked on the Gryffindor boy. “_Tell her or I will_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alexander snaps with his nose in the air. 

“Oh, don’t you?” Damien taps Madam Pomfrey on the shoulder so she’ll face him, and he gives her a bright smile, sugary sweet, a mirror image of Patton’s signature beam. “Madam Pomfrey, is spellcasting allowed on the Quidditch pitch during games?”

Madam Pomfrey blinks quickly, head cocked to the side. “I don’t believe so, but Madam Hooch is a better-”

“It’s not,” Virgil calls across the room. Alexander’s gaze snaps to him, but Virgil just nods for Damien to continue. Roman’s never seen them work together.

“And are students allowed, in any setting within the school, outside of class demonstrations or duels, to cast spells on each other?”

“Oh,” Madam Pomfrey putters, “certainly not.”

“Then _Alexander_,” Damien spits the name, “would like to _tell you something_.” 

Madam Pomfrey looks at a tight-lipped Alexander, eyebrows raised and hands clasped together in front of her expectantly. 

Patton sends a glance over his shoulder at Roman and Virgil as the infirmary falls silent, concern etched on his face. Logan follows his gaze and sends the pair a thumbs up - Roman can’t quite make out the look in his eyes, but he still seems amused more than anything, so Roman makes a guess that he and Alexander also have a rocky relationship. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Gryffindor repeats, though it’s far less convincing as Damien’s stare remains trained on him. 

“Allow me to aid your memory,” Logan cuts in with an all-too-helpful smile. He and Alexander are _definitely _not on good terms, Roman decides, just as Alexander looks positively homicidal. “Approximately one minute before this morning’s Quidditch game ended with Virgil’s capture of the golden snitch,” Patton grins at Virgil and offers an enthusiastic thumbs up that Virgil happily returns, “you pulled your wand from your left sleeve and cast what I merely presume was Petrificus Totalus on Roman Walsh.” 

Logan gestures pointedly to where Roman is laying, as if anyone in the room needs a reminder as to who he is; Roman waves. 

“You then proceeded to aim directly at Roman with your bat, rather than the bludger, which, correct me if I’m wrong, is what beaters’ bats are _intended _for, and you hit him, knocking him off his broom and breaking- how many bones?” 

“Three,” Roman offers gleefully. 

“Three bones - ribs, I’m guessing - and you proceeded to act as if it never happened. That might be why you have so much trouble recalling it now,” Logan explains; Roman can practically hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Pathological lying is a serious issue.” The Slytherin turns to Damien, head tilted with curiosity, and Damien’s smile is smug and ridiculously entertained as Logan asks in all seriousness, “Does Hogwarts have a psychologist on hand?”

“Shut up,” Alexander seethes. 

Logan raises his eyebrows, feigning shock; Roman’s never considered it before, but now he wonders if Logan’s ever done theater, because his acting is superb. “I’m just curious - bear with me here, Kirkland, and do your best to search your memory - as to why! Now, if you and Roman were seekers, I believe I’d understand a motive; but you’re both beaters, and Virgil had, by the time you brandished your wand, already spotted the snitch, so there was really no point in ousting Roman of all players.”

Madam Pomfrey squints, but she makes no effort to stop him. 

“I’m not sure what your motivations could be, though,” Logan continues, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Insecurity,” Patton suggests, and Virgil has to smother a laugh with horribly fake coughing; Alexander turns a rather alarming shade of red in the face. 

“Oh, great addition, Patton!” Logan nods. Patton gives a bright smile that’s directed more toward Alexander than his boyfriend, who turns to Damien - all three of them are clearly having the time of their lives, and frankly, Roman is, too. “What about you, Damien? Any ideas?”

“I’m with my brother on this one, quite honestly - inferiority complexes are pretty common in teenagers, from what I’ve heard.”

“They are indeed.”

“Shut _up_,” Alexander repeats through grit teeth. 

“Boys,” Madam Pomfrey starts sternly, though she seems a bit confused by the narrative being painted. 

“Is that why, then, Alexander?” Logan asks. “Insecurity seems to be the general consensus.”

“_No-”_

“It’s too bad Emile isn’t here, he’s rather fond of psychopathology.”

“I’m not-”

“Madam Pomfrey, are you trained in dealing with emotional issues as well as physical?”

“Some people just need to be taken down a peg!” 

The infirmary falls silent. Roman sits up at last, frowning, and Virgil, Patton, and Logan all have nearly identical glares on their faces, but Damien just looks triumphant. 

“And whatever do you mean by that?” the Slytherin exhales, mouth curled into a smug smile.

Alexander seems to catch himself a minute later, red face going pale as he presses his lips together tightly once more. 

“He’s arrogant,” he forces out with a hiss. His eyes find Roman, filled with seething satisfaction as he gives a grim smirk; part of Roman wants to get up and face him, dare him to say it when the Ravenclaw isn’t bedridden, but the other part of him wants to shrink into his sheets and succumb to the pit of dread and anxiety in his stomach as Alexander continues. 

“It’s annoying - he acts like he’s better than everyone else all the time, and he’s _not_. He’s not even good in his own house. I’m not the only one who thinks so,” the Gryffindor says, almost as a second thought, and straightens up as he faces a now-stoic Damien. “I’m just the one who did something about it.” 

_He’s not even good in his own house_. The second part of Roman wins out, and he sinks back onto the bed, wishing more than anything that he could disappear right then and there. 

There’s a weight on his hand suddenly - he looks down, then up, and finds Virgil’s eyes on him, glimmering with concern as he laces their fingers together; there’s also something angry, though Roman knows on instinct that it’s not directed at him. The pit in his stomach eases up. 

Careful, deliberate footsteps slice through the buzzing quiet of the infirmary as Damien approaches Alexander, face stony and hands curled into fists at his side. Alexander’s haughty disposition falters - Logan and Patton glance at each other, and Roman just manages to catch their smothered smirks.

“You’re very, _very _lucky I value my position in this school,” Damien starts in a low voice, so low Roman can only barely make out the words. “Because if I didn’t mind losing my place as a beater, or messing up my _spotless_,” he emphasizes the syllables by reaching out and poking Alexander’s chest with one finger, harder when Alexander stumbles back a step, his complexion wan all over again, “reputation, I would have turned you to a pile of ash by now.”

Damien leans in, backing Alexander against an infirmary cart. “If you ever pull something like that again - if you so much as _look _at him wrong - I’ll lose my inhibitions much more quickly.” 

Before Alexander has a chance to splutter a response, Madam Pomfrey finally manages to step between them again, shooing Damien off with a pinched expression as she turns and speaks to a petrified Alexander in a voice too low for Roman to understand from across the room. Damien just swipes imaginary dirt from his robes, facing Logan and Patton with a set nod. 

They make their way to Roman’s bedside as Madam Pomfrey leads Alexander out of the infirmary - the pair is silent, but Alexander’s expression screams something acrid, and Pomfrey looks ready to expel him herself - and settle around his bed sporadically. 

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” Patton asks, offering him a warm smile. 

Roman pushes down the remaining discomfort and dread in his stomach to paste a smile onto his face, though he doesn’t speak until the infirmary doors fall shut. “Good!” he lies. “Not perfect, clearly, but Madam Pomfrey is a miracle worker - I’ll be better by tomorrow, no doubt.” 

He sees, in the corner of his eye, Virgil staring at him. He keeps his gaze trained on Patton’s contented nodding. 

“She’s a witch, Roman,” Logan corrects after a moment, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s magic, not a miracle.” 

“I know, Specs.” 

They all fall quiet - Logan seems more confused than contemplative, as the rest of them are, but silent nonetheless. Then three start talking at once. 

Virgil and Roman go quiet again, looking at each other, but Damien doesn’t stop. 

“Nothing Alexander said is of any merit,” he says, arms crossed over his chest. Roman opens his mouth, but Damien shakes his head. “I know you’ll keep thinking about it, Roman, and you shouldn’t. His opinion is worthless. He’s just lashing out at you because he’s self-conscious - that’s not your fault.” 

Patton nods along as Logan adds, voice laced with contempt and an air of satisfaction, “Alexander Kirkland is an insecure dolt.”

“Alexander Kirkland is a little bitch,” Virgil mutters under his breath. Patton nods a little less enthusiastically. 

Roman gives another smile - it’s smaller, weaker, but it’s genuine, at least - and looks to the doors of the infirmary, dark and closed tight. “What do you think they’ll do about him?” he asks quietly. 

“They’re going to suspend him for the rest of the season,” Damien says without hesitating, examining the hem of his robes’ sleeves with idle interest. 

Virgil and Roman share a glance. “I don’t know if Hooch’ll take it that far, Dames,” Roman admits, albeit reluctantly, as he shifts in the bed and ignores the dull ache in his ribs. “Spellcasting on the pitch is usually just a foul.”

Damien tilts his head and offers Roman a sympathetic smile. “You underestimate me, darling.” 

Virgil rolls his eyes, but it is, admittedly, less hostile than usual as he comprehends what the Slytherin is implying. 

Roman’s never heard of a student getting suspended for a Quidditch season, at least not since he’s been at Hogwarts - sitting out because of injury, or illness, maybe, but even that was wildly rare, what with magic healing and Quidditch players’ outright stubbornness - and the thought of being the reason for such a thing, though he usually adores being the center of attention, makes a painful lump form in his throat. It’s lessened ever so slightly by the fact that Damien is so willing to make it happen for him. It’s lessened even more when Patton, Logan, and Virgil, the common sense and moral compasses of their little group, seem willing to let him do it. 

“Are you sure-” he starts carefully, but Virgil cuts him off.

“Of course he’s sure. You didn’t deserve that,” he says, arms crossed over his chest, and Roman can’t help but feel he means more than the broken ribs. “And if Beauregard can’t manage it,” Damien scoffs, which Virgil ignores, “then we’ll all storm down to Dumbledore’s office and raise hell ‘til Alexander gets what’s coming to him.”

“_Up _to Dumbledore’s office,” Logan corrects quickly. “It’s in a tower.”

“…Right. Up to his office. The rest still stands, though.”

And Roman laughs then, and it’s bright and genuine and admittedly a bit painful, because his friends are ridiculous and he’s never felt so grateful for a group of people in his life. “Thanks,” he says softly; he realizes Virgil’s hand is still in his as the Gryffindor squeezes it, and when Roman glances up, Virgil gives him a smile that makes his heart soar, a smile that’s small but so clearly says _It’ll be okay. _

Roman looks around, reveling in the fact that the ache in his ribs has lessened to an afterthought as he does it - Patton and Logan are side by side, and Roman can just barely see their fingers laced together between them; Damien looks a bit lost in his thoughts, a plot clear on his face as he glances at the infirmary doors and eyes still glinting with triumphance; and Virgil, still at Roman’s side, however long he’s been there, with that forest and campfire and treacle tart voice that Roman can hear echoing in his head, watches him with an air of concern.

Roman squeezes his hand back, and gives a smile that says _I know. _


End file.
